Old Lady. Yes, I dessay, anything to save yourselves a little trouble! You're all alike, you Post-Office young women. As if I couldn't send five-and-fourpence to my boy down at Toadley in the 'Ole, without filling up a parcel o' nonsense!
Person behind (with a talent for grim irony of a heavy order). Can you inform me whether there are any arrangements for providing luncheon for the Public—because, as it appears I am to spend the entire day here——
Miss Goodchild (sweetly). I'm so very sorry to keep you waiting, Sir. As soon as ever I have attended to this lady!——
Old Lady. If you call it attending—which I don't myself. There's your form.
Miss Goodchild. Oh, but you haven't told me whom you want the order made out to!
Old Lady. I did—I told you it was my son. If you hadn't been woolgathering, you'd ha' heard me. I'm sure I speak plain enough!
Miss Goodchild (laughing good-humouredly). Oh, yes, you speak very plainly—but I want the name in full, please, to put in the instructions.
The Person with the Irony. When you have quite concluded your little conversation——
Miss Goodchild (as she fills in the order). Now, Sir, what can I do for you?
The Person with the Irony. Well, I should be glad to be informed what you mean by requiring me to take out a licence for a dog that died of distemper a fortnight after I had him—and I had a warranty with him too!